


Chronostasis

by crescentmoontea



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aragaki Shinjiro Lives, Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Messy Feelings, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Survivor Guilt, references to persona 4 arena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26168158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentmoontea/pseuds/crescentmoontea
Summary: I'm not supposed to love him too, came a quiet gurgle of uninvited honesty, a treasonous rumbling from the cavity in Shinjiro’s chest where Castor used to sleep.//On the fifth anniversary of Kotone's death, Shinjiro and Akihiko try to forge a new path forward.
Relationships: Aragaki Shinjiro/Sanada Akihiko, Past Aragaki Shinjiro/Female Persona 3 Protagonist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	Chronostasis

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags: canonical character death refers to the death of the female Persona 3 protagonist (called Kotone Shiomi here). 
> 
> I wrote this wanting to explore three things within the context of the P3P, FeMC universe post-canon:  
> 1) Shinjiro was in love with Kotone.  
> 2) Shinjiro was also in love with Akihiko.  
> 3) Akihiko was in love with Shinjiro.
> 
> I hope all three of those things come through here with sincerity, messy as they may be as they intersect.

The cherry blossoms were late. 

On March 5th--on _every_ March 5th--Shinjiro followed the exact same routine. He showed up for work on time and bargained for end-of-shift coverage with whichever coworker owed him a favor. Once the dinner rush died down, and the head chef was on his second smoke break of the night, Shinjiro slipped out the back door, rode the monorail across the bay to his old high school, and clipped a branch from one of its sakura trees. After picking the emergency exit’s lock and making his way up the staircase to the roof, he laid his offering across Kotone’s bench. And as the last few minutes of March 5th passed away, he talked to her: the kind of simple, ephemeral conversation he used to make with Akihiko after lights-out in the orphanage, where the words didn’t matter nearly as much as the connection across the darkness.

All he asked from the world in return were clear skies and fat, fluffy cherry blossoms, and the first four March 5ths had complied, ticked down all their seconds with the respectful mimicry the day required. But March 5th number five didn’t cooperate, arriving before a single tree bloomed in all of Iwatodai, rattling their barren branches with its mutiny. 

Shinjiro didn’t reach the roof until it was almost midnight, empty-handed and winded.

“Don’t give me that look,” he huffed. “Tried to buy you a damn bouquet, but everywhere was closed.” 

Five years ago, when Kotone closed her eyes in his arms, Shinjiro swore he heard her trying to say goodbye. Junpei called an ambulance; Aigis picked her up from Shinjiro’s lap and carried her from the roof to the courtyard. The others followed, filtering out the door one by one in silence, until only Shinjiro and Akihiko were left and Shinjiro had to shove him onto the stairs so he’d leave, too. 

“Go make sure the kid’s not scared,” he’d snapped, “or go get your damn diploma before they take it back.” 

When he was finally gone, Shinjiro barricaded the door with his body, slumped against it and broke apart, pleading with whatever gods his friends hadn’t defeated during his coma to let him fall back asleep, too--

Without any blossoms to lay on her bench, Shinjiro walked to the edge of the roof, pressed a hand into the mottled guardrail and watched his breath curl between its bars.

“Place never changes, huh?” he said, glancing down at the heel-worn tile that should have been dotted with petals. 

Kotone would’ve protested, and Shinjiro couldn’t fully disagree. Gekkoukan High didn’t transform into Tartarus anymore. Different shoes lined its lockers every morning, different flowers grew in its gardens and lined its pathways. The view from the roof was still the best on the island, but Iwatodai’s skyline wouldn’t quit growing; every year, there were more skinny skyscrapers wedged between the old behemoths, peeking out behind the turbines in the bay. If he squinted, Shinjiro could even pick out the glassy high-rise sprouting like a beanstalk from the rubble of the old S.E.E.S. dorm. The city was alive, breathing and sighing with the years in a way that would’ve seemed impossible to the kids who roamed it when the clocks were frozen, when the moon glowed green and the streets were lined with coffins, and everything but the shadows stood deathly still. 

What never changed was the heaviness that veiled the rooftop, the crystalline shards suspended in the air that shredded Shinjiro’s pathetic lungs with every inhale. He hadn’t just lost Kotone that day, but Akihiko, too. It wasn’t exactly a surprise--Akihiko’s one-way ticket was booked weeks prior, when Shinjiro was still unconscious--but he was at least planning to say his see you laters before Akihiko boarded his train. 

Instead, he’d collapsed a few short blocks from the station, and the hopeful delusion of _see you later_ turned into the honest finality of _goodbye_. Phantom arms strapped him to a stretcher as the world went white and staticky; Shinjiro wondered if some god had heard his pitiful begging after all, had decided to put an end to his selfishness so Akihiko didn’t have to watch anyone else die.

When he woke up again, it was summer and Castor was a wilted stem in his windpipe. The doctors told him how lucky he was to survive, how his lungs had started showing tentative signs of recovery; Shinjiro punched a hole in the hospital wall and screamed, really _screamed_ for the first time in years, over and over until a team rushed in to restrain him. He stayed under observation a few more weeks, and Akihiko never came to visit; in all the years since, they’d never passed each other on the Iwatodai streets, never tried each other’s old phone numbers. It was a goddamn relief, Shinjiro told himself, stringing up caution tape around the memories begging him to believe otherwise-- 

Kotone would have interjected right about then, like she always did whenever Shinjiro got lost in his head, would have slung that cheeky smile Shinjiro couldn’t say no to across her face and demanded he tell her a story.

“My stories ain’t interesting like yours,” he said, even as a small grin curled in the corners of his lips. “Lemme see. Mitsuru tell you she came into my restaurant the other night?” 

He gave Kotone a moment to shake her head no before continuing. 

“She’s a real CEO now, huh? Looks like one too. Was wearing a suit and stilettos on a Wednesday, draggin’ a couple of scared-looking dudes behind her.” 

Shinjiro didn’t mention how he’d nearly bolted out the kitchen door when he spotted Mitsuru being led to a table. He wondered if she picked his place on purpose to try and check in on him, or if she just came because of its fancy reputation and weeks-long waiting list for reservations. It wasn’t like he was in charge or anything--his name wasn’t anywhere but the payroll--but a few of the recipes were his creation. Mitsuru had ordered one of them, a citrusy riff on simmered mackerel; Shinjiro wondered if it tasted familiar. It was borne of one of Fuuka’s only nontoxic kitchen mishaps, when she’d mistaken yuzu juice for mirin one night while helping mix a marinade. 

Shinjiro looked around, searching for Kotone’s madeira eyes in the stingy greys and blues of the rooftop. He couldn’t find them, but he could feel them, crinkling as she shot him a playful glare for falling silent. 

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” he offered at last, remembering how she used to bounce on her heels like an impatient little kid whenever someone kept her waiting. “I still work at the same damn restaurant. Still live in the same shitty apartment. Ain’t seen the others. Same as last year and the year before that.”

He imagined Kotone shaking her head as he traced the almost-full moon with an outstretched finger. Full moons still set off something panicky and primal inside him, even though the stars that flanked it never failed to soothe his frazzled nerves. The sky and moon used to change during the Dark Hour, but the stars never did -- just hid themselves behind the otherworldly clouds until it was safe to shine again. 

“Tch. How about not making the quiet guy do all the talking, huh?” Shinjiro chided. “I know you’re busy sealing off Nyx and all, but c’mon. Say something. It gets harder every year to--” 

_To remember your voice_ , he didn’t let himself finish. _Your voice is so goddamn faint, it’s almost gone._

“Don’t misunderstand,” he quickly added. “It ain’t your fault. But it also ain’t supposed to be you watching over me, that’s for damn sure.”

 _“Except we both knew I would be,”_ Kotone didn’t say--couldn’t say--but Shinjiro heard her, whispering from somewhere in the past beyond the horizon. 

“You’re wrong,” he said, curling his fists around the railing. “It was supposed to be me watching over you and Aki. S’all I was ever good for. Wasn’t really even good for that.”

Somewhere down below, a horn sounded and a dog barked; Shinjiro watched an airplane fly a gentle slope across the sky, tapped his forehead to the railing and looked sideways across the roof. 

“Looks like you had some other visitors this year,” he said, changing the subject, kicking his heels against each other. “Saw a couple nice bouquets over there. Those peonies from Yukari? Fuuka? No way they’re from Aki. He’s never set foot in a damn flower shop.”

It was disconcertingly easy to talk about Akihiko like they were still best friends, still the kids from the orphanage who vowed to get stronger together, to survive together. Shinjiro broke the first vow the day his persona rampaged, broke the second the day he swallowed his first suppressor, but even then, the stupid, loyal idiot had refused to abandon him. Once upon a time, Shinjiro knew Akihiko better than anyone in the world, but they didn’t share the same world anymore. Akihiko might work in a flower shop now, for all Shinjiro knew. Maybe he had a girlfriend who he bought flowers for every single day, on his way back from whatever the hell job he had wherever he lived.

“Does Aki ever come back to visit you?” Shinjiro asked the blinking lights dotting the bay, eyelashes suddenly encapsulated with saltwater. “You think he’s happy?” 

_“Are you?”_ Kotone would’ve pushed back, because she always knew how to ask the kinds of questions that hit Shinjiro where he was softest, always knew how to find the one dent in his armor that would make him wince and press it. 

_As if someone like me is allowed to be_ , Shinjiro thought as the caplets burst. 

“I love you, Kotone,” he whispered through clenched teeth, trapping a powdery sob on his tongue. “I miss you. And I miss Aki. I miss him like I miss you. That’s fucked up, huh? He ain’t even dead. Just gone, and I’m--”

 _I’m not supposed to love him too_ , came a quiet gurgle of uninvited honesty, a treasonous rumbling from the cavity in Shinjiro’s chest where Castor used to sleep.

March 5th wasn’t supposed to change; there were supposed to be cherry blossoms; time was supposed to stand still for twenty-four hours so Kotone could see that no one had forgotten her, see that Shinjiro still loved her, would keep loving her for however many more March 5ths he lived to see. So how? How could he dare to face her five years later, empty-handed but for the ugly, uncomfortable truth that he loved someone else, too? That his selfish, traitorous heart had always loved someone else, too? That even though he’d buried that love in his marrow years before he even met her, he’d still betrayed her--

“I love _you_ ,” he said again, a plea more than an edict. _I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me_. 

When Shinjiro fell in love with Kotone, it was frantic and urgent: two people who found each other while counting down to the end of their heartbeats, who brazenly took the month of September for themselves knowing somehow that their time would expire before mid-autumn. It was the kind of love that could only happen at the end of the world, a hot lick of flame and smoke that danced and sparkled across the darkening sky. Shinjiro fought it, but Kotone fought harder, and in the end, he stopped holding himself back and let himself embrace her. 

But Aki--

 _Don’t make me say it_ , Shinjiro begged. _Don’t make me say it_. 

There was a moment, during Shinjiro’s coma, when Akihiko’s garbled voice had cut through the indefinite silence.

Akihiko’s grey eyes were the last thing Shinjiro saw before falling unconscious in the alleyway, and the first thing he saw while fluttering back into the bright fluorescence of the hospital. The blanket-soft, lightning-hot feelings embedded in his bones crept outward, thrummed in his veins and his muscles and his joints, unspoken still but unencumbered for a few blissful days--

and when his memories came back on March 5th, it wasn’t just Kotone who returned to him; the oil-slicked words Akihiko had cried into his sleeping ears slammed into his chest-- 

_“What am I supposed to do if I lose you too?! Shinji. Don’t leave me behind!”_

It was wrong, it was _all wrong_ ; it shouldn’t have been possible to love two people so deeply and completely and _differently_. Shinjiro panicked, shoved the breath-stealing blasphemy back between the slats of his ribs until they cracked, and ran towards the school. 

If loving Kotone was like lighting fireworks in the street, then losing her was like the plunge into darkness as the last one flickered out. When she died, she took a piece of him with her; Shinjiro felt the cyclonic ache of loss under his collarbone, felt the skin on his calloused hands soften where he’d held her. Their love was beautiful, eternal, encased in amber; it was permanent, and it was final. 

There was nothing final about loving Akihiko. 

Loving Akihiko felt like sitting up in bed just before sunrise and watching the black sky fill with oranges and pinks, like the promise of snow after summer and flowers after winter. It was borne of the past but it begged for a future, fell to its knees screaming for the life that Shinjiro gave up--

Something soft sailed across the rooftop and collided with his shins. He wiped a stray tear from his cheek and glanced down, biting his knuckle to try and block the rebellious laugh that bubbled up in his throat. 

“Moron. You seriously threw your flowers at me?” He stooped down, picked up the bouquet and held it to his chest, pretending for a moment it was warm from her touch. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Shinji?” 

Shinjiro’s bones petrified like wood as the deep, shaking voice collided with his back. 

That was Akihiko’s voice like he hadn’t heard it since the morning after the orphanage caught fire, when he rolled over in his tiny twin sleeping bag and called out for Miki a moment before remembering she was gone. 

“Shinji,” Akihiko said again. Firmer. Angrier. 

_Much_ angrier. 

Shinjiro’s boots turned from leather to lead, soldered to the ground and blisteringly hot. _What do I say?_ he mouthed to Kotone, but she ignored him, reclining somewhere between the Dioscuri shining over the Moonlight Bridge.

Two familiarly strong hands clamped down on Shinjiro’s arms, wrenched him away from the railing and sent him stumbling backwards across the roof. The peonies fell from his hands, somersaulting under the guardrail chased by a small bouquet of yellow roses.

So Akihiko _had_ set foot in a flower shop after all.

“What the hell?” Shinjiro growled, as another shove flattened his back against the heavy metal door. 

Shinjiro wasn’t as quick as he used to be, and Akihiko, it seemed, had grown even quicker. Shinjiro was still taller by a couple of centimeters, but his posture was hunched while Akihiko’s was ruler-straight, giving him the advantage. Before Shinjiro could bring his arms to his chest and guard, Akihiko had his biceps clamped under his palms, fingers bent and trembling, knuckles white. 

When they were teenagers, Akikoko would have followed up with a right hook to Shinjiro’s jaw. And when they were kids, he’d have paired the blow with hot tears, dripping off his chin onto the backs of his hands as they curled again and again into fists--

Shinjiro’s mouth went dry when he saw the wet stripes on Akihiko’s cheeks. 

“Aki,” he tried again, “I don’t want to fight.” 

But Akihiko cut him off with a sniffle and another shove. The cap of Shinjiro’s skull smacked against the door; he bit his lip to contain the curses piling on his tongue. Shinjiro didn’t get into many fights these days; the worst hits he took were spatulas to the forehead from the chef at work. Nobody challenged him anymore. Nobody really even saw him. Not like Akihiko was seeing him now, stormcloud eyes roving over the whole of Shinjiro’s crumpled shape.

“Where the hell have you been, Shinji?” Akihiko hissed, fingertips curling into the meat of Shinjiro’s arms. 

Shinjiro tried to wriggle free, but Akihiko’s grip was unrelenting and buzzing with angry electricity. He lowered his head, so Shinjiro couldn’t see his face anymore, just the top of his head and the lone tear beading on the tip of his nose.

 _See, Kotone?_ Shinjiro almost said out loud. _This is why I called him a crybaby. He hasn’t changed at all--_

Akihiko pressed a forearm across Shinjiro’s neck without looking up. “Answer me, damnit!”

“That’s cute coming from you,” Shinjiro said as he kicked at Akihiko’s ankle. “I’ve been right here. Ain’t seen you around Iwatodai in five fucking years, though.”

“I’ve been in and out.” Akihiko caught Shinjiro’s foot with his own and held it down. “Got back a few weeks ago, not that I owe you an explanation.”

“Is that right? Welcome home.” Shinjiro aimed the bitter words at Akihiko’s shoes and spat. “Did the others throw you a party? Must’ve lost my invite--”

“No shit, asshole!” Akihiko shouted, loud enough to send a flock of crows scattering from the tops of the trees. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

Shinjiro’s arms went limp.

Akihiko didn’t notice, or if he did, pressed on anyway. “I missed my train and the train _after_ my train searching for you. You didn’t go back to the hospital, you weren’t at the dorm or behind the station. You just vanished. Where the hell did you go, Shinji?” 

“Different hospital--”

“Bullshit.” Akihiko cut him off, grabbing hold of his jacket with both hands, pulling Shinjiro close enough that he could see Akihiko’s forehead twitching. “Bullshit, Shinji, don’t lie to me.”

“It was only a three month coma the second time,” Shinjiro added, and Akihiko went white.

Shinjiro never did get a good explanation why he was brought to a hospital so far outside Iwatodai. A nurse said something once about a shortage of beds within city limits, but Shinjiro couldn’t remember the details; at the time, it was tough to muster up enough energy to care.

Akihiko was staring him down again, wet eyes steaming with fury; if he leaned any closer, their noses would’ve touched. “But everyone thinks you’re dead,” he said again, tripping over the syllables like they were barbed. 

“I’m supposed to be,” Shinjiro mumbled, as the guilt snapped its chains around his throat. 

Akihiko recoiled like he’d been slapped, giving Shinjiro a final half-hearted shove before stepping backwards. They stared at each other for a hollowed-out minute, until the color came back into Akihiko’s cheeks, and Shinjiro calmed his pulse down enough to speak.

“Can we take this somewhere else? I don’t want--” he caught himself before the rest came out. _I don’t want Kotone to see_. 

Akihiko nodded through his anger like he understood; an unwelcome crackle of warmth dusted the tops of Shinjiro’s ears. “Look, I-- I came to talk to her, too.”

Shinjiro said nothing, nodding before turning around and stepping onto the pitch-black staircase, pausing once he was half a flight down. “That was my fault,” he said, hoping she could still hear him. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make up for it next year.”

 _“You’ve never promised to stay alive before,”_ Kotone couldn’t have replied, but just like five years ago, he swore he heard her say it. 

***

“You two have a nice talk?” Shinjiro asked, idly pulling the petals off a bruised yellow rose, when Akihiko emerged from the school twenty minutes later. 

“Something like that,” Akihiko grumbled. His balled-up fists were shoved into the pockets of his coat, eyes red-rimmed and puffy; he leaned against the wall of the school and kicked his heel into the bricks. He looked older, had some stubble on his chin and a few new scars on his face, but he was chewing his lip the same way he always did when there was something he didn’t want to say, still reflexively blocking the right side of his torso like he was under attack.

They stood in awkward, wobbling silence for several minutes. Shinjiro gulped down a swallow of the breeze, trying to cool the fire in his lungs; Akihiko crouched down and gathered up the remnants of the broken bouquets, carried them over to the garden beds and scattered them.

“Shinji,” Akihiko finally said, looking down at Shinjiro’s shaking arms. 

“Yeah?” Shinjiro asked, following Akihiko’s gaze to his shivers, realizing all at once how cold he felt. His damn lungs might’ve bulked up enough to keep him breathing, but his body temperature regulation had never come back. It was cold on the roof and even colder in the courtyard, and the thin cotton of his chef’s jacket was a terrible replacement for a coat. 

Akihiko looked around one more time before checking his watch. “It’s almost one-thirty. Know anywhere open this late for a drink?”

Shinjiro did -- a few dark, sticky-floored dive bars that didn’t close ‘til three, but those were for knocking back glasses of well whisky with his coworkers and hooking up in the bathroom with whichever one was equally bored and lonely. They were absolutely _not_ where the first few hours after March 5th were meant to pass, not for unexpected, middle-of-the-night reunions with someone who would figure out soon enough that he shouldn't have come back.

“No,” he said, “but you can come over, I guess.” 

Akihiko looked away, shielding his face from Shinjiro’s searching gaze. “Okay,” he said quietly, resolutely. “I missed you, Shinji.” 

Shinjiro didn’t let himself respond; he wouldn’t have been able to control what spilled out.

***

“A bear?” Shinjiro rolled his eyes as he unlocked the rickety door of his apartment. “You moron. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.” 

“I’ve got the scars to prove it,” Akihiko said, smiling for the first time that night, like he used to whenever one of them nailed a critical hit on a shadow. 

Even though there was no way Akihiko actually fought a goddamn bear in South America, even though the tension between the two of them was no less awkward and thick, Shinjiro couldn’t help but smile back. Akihiko was still angry--it was obvious from the clench in his shoulders, the rigidity of his steps, the way he kicked his shoes off directly into Shinjiro’s wall--but at least he still had smiles brewing in him, too. 

Shinjiro hung his jacket on top of Akihiko’s coat and leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and watched the impossible, bizarrely normal scene unfolding in his kitchen. Akihiko was making himself at home, albeit nervously: pouring himself a glass of water and chugging it, eating a strawberry from Shinjiro’s fruit basket and crushing its tiny leaves, rummaging around his cabinets looking for the liquor. 

Shinjiro swallowed the words trying to push past his lips, imagining what the last five years could’ve held if things were different. Even after putting his selfish, unrequited feelings aside, it was obvious that their friendship had been robbed of growth. They could have been flatmates, maybe, taken turns checking in on the kid and the mutt every so often, visited Kotone together every March 5th--

Akihiko was staring at him again. He did that a lot, always had been prone to getting lost in thought and not realizing when his focus had landed on Shinjiro’s face. But something about the way _this_ stare was digging into the newly-exposed muscles of Shinjiro’s arms made him want to crawl out of his skin and hide in his shadow. 

“Take a picture, asshole,” Shinjiro snapped, and Akihiko quailed, eyes darkening with a fresh coating of wrath. Shinjiro decided to try and smooth it back over--something he was decidedly _not_ skilled at doing--with another clumsy question. _What have you been up to?_ got him the ridiculous story about fighting the bear, so he tried something more concrete. “Where are you staying?”

“I could ask you the same,” Akihiko said, dodging the question and contorting it into something worse. “This place is empty. Are you dating someone or something? Half your stuff at their place?”

Shinjiro’s vocal chords spasmed. “I-- I don’t date,” he sputtered, internally berating himself for not just sparring it out with Akihiko at the school; it would have sucked, but he could have at least avoided _this_. 

“Why not?” Akihiko asked. Shinjiro was starting to feel like this was a purposefully-laid trap; Akihiko’s voice was deceptively calm but his mouth was tense and his chest was puffed. “It’s not like you couldn’t find someone if you tried, right?” 

“I just don’t date, all right?” Shinjiro snapped, taking the bait like the fucking hypocrite he was. “Where’s this even coming from? Why do you care?”

“Forget it.” Akihiko glared at him before climbing onto the counter like a petulant child, busying himself with digging through Shinjiro’s highest cupboard. “I’m not dating anyone right now either, not that you asked. I never did learn to talk to _girls_.” 

Shinjiro did not, could not, would not read into that--

“Since when do you like these?” Akihiko called, holding a silver-canned protein drink over his shoulder. 

_Of all the fucking cabinets in the damn apartment--_

“I don’t,” Shinjiro said, desperately trying to ward off the vicious heat clawing across his face. _You do_. 

“Mine now, then. It’s probably fine if it only expired six months ago, right?” Akihiko hopped down from the counter; Shinjiro snatched the can away before he tried to open it. “Hey, what the hell?”

“Quit making a mess of my kitchen, damnit,” Shinjiro said, shoving the drink behind the rice cooker and slamming the offending cabinet door. “What do you want that _isn’t_ rancid protein?”

“Anything’s fine,” Akihiko replied, temper flaring behind his voice again. 

“No, idiot, anything’s not fine,” Shinjiro snapped, picking up a bottle of red wine from the counter and squeezing it like a stress ball. What did Akihiko even drink? What kind of drinks would impress someone who just came back from traveling the world? They were fresh out of _goddamn high school_ the last time they stood in the same room; Akihiko was such a good little student back then, he’d never even tasted alcohol-- 

Akihiko reached a tentative arm towards Shinjiro, fingertips momentarily grazing his elbow; Shinjiro jerked away from the unexpected connection. Nothing about Akihiko matched in that moment. How could his touch be soft when his legs were so tense, his eyes so mean and his mouth so sad? When did Akihiko get so damn unreadable? Shinjiro waited for him to say something, but nothing came. A pregnant silence lingered in the air instead, pressing against Shinjiro’s chest until he stepped away to find his corkscrew.

At least he’d managed to pick up a bottle of not-completely-shitty wine. 

“Here,” he said gruffly, shoving an overpoured goblet at Akihiko. “Don’t break that, got it? I only have those glasses because work was getting rid of them.” 

Akihiko quickly set his drink down on Shinjiro’s low table, folding his legs over a cushion on the floor as he looked at Shinjiro’s chef’s jacket on its hook. “I should have guessed you’d be cooking. Is it somewhere nice?” 

Shinjiro shrugged, tugging at his ponytail and swallowing a generous glug of wine. “So what if it is? Surprised?”

“Not at all,” Akihiko said, still staring past him. “It suits you.”

“Yeah?” Shinjiro took a few cautious steps and joined Akihiko at the table, sitting next to him on the floor and pressing his palms to the ground behind his back. “You figure out what suits you?” 

Akihiko’s face went rigid. “Well, I--” he stopped, took a slow drink of wine, refolded his legs and hunched forward, “I tried college. I traveled. Trained. I joined and left the Shadow Operatives--shit, don’t tell Mitsuru I said that--and tried college again. Traveled more.”

Shinjiro let the Shadow Operatives comment go, filing it away to ask about later, if he got the chance. It sounded interesting, and like a hell of a lot more than Shinjiro had done in the past five years, but it wasn’t important, not when Akihiko was curling forward on himself like that, like the anger meant for Shinjiro had turned inward on him. Whatever Akihiko was fixating on, whatever he thought he’d done wrong in those five years, he was probably beating himself up over it way more than necessary. Just like always. 

“It’s cool,” Shinjiro said with a shrug. “It’s just me, Aki. Ain’t like I’m somebody you have to impress.”

Akihiko’s fingers curled around the wine glass’s stem and choked it. “There is no _just_ when it comes to you, Shinji.”

Shinjiro blinked, leaned away, swirled Akihiko’s words in his glass. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Shut up.” Akihiko’s steely eyes turned molten as they fixed their focus on Shinjiro’s throat. “Do you know what I used to say sometimes, while you were in your coma and I beat a shadow in Tartarus, really beat one with the kind of strike you used to do like it was nothing?”

Shinjiro shook his head.

“Did you see that, Shinji?” Akihiko spat the words with a rueful laugh; Shinjiro flinched as they splintered against his skin. “The others pretended not to hear me. Except Kotone. She couldn’t pretend. Always looked really sad.”

“Aki, _don’t_ \--”

“Shut _up_!” Akihiko raked a hand through his hair, rubbed rapid, jagged crescents into his temples. “Why did they get to move on when I couldn’t?! Whenever I called Caesar, I saw you. Did you even _know_ I evolved Polydeuces into Caesar? I did. Over your hospital bed.”

“Aki--”

“ _Shut. Up._ You survived, but you still left me alone. I had to move on. And I did. I _did_.” Akihiko paused, like he was playing the words over in his head, punching his fist repeatedly into his palm. 

Shinjiro had seen that move a million times. It was a trademark of the Akihiko S.E.E.S. knew: always a little too focused about his next fight, mind constantly wandering into the ring. Shinjiro had never seen it paired with such uninhibited fury, except--

Something was tugging at a dusty memory in Shinjiro’s mind. Akihiko, outside the burning orphanage, restrained by one of the caretakers; Akihiko, kicking his legs into the air, screaming, and _punching his fist into his damn palm_. 

He should have noticed. How could he not have noticed? 

What _else_ had he missed in his selfish blindness? 

“Maybe I’m still lying to myself,” Akihiko sighed, dropping his hawkish gaze, swiping it across Shinjiro’s chest. “I was supposed to find something to fight for beyond my fear of losing people, right? I haven’t, but until tonight, I thought I’d already lost everyone I’ve ever lov-- ever wanted to protect. But you’re _here_ , Shinji, and now I’m terrified again. So what am I supposed to do?”

Either Shinjiro’s mind was playing tricks on him, or Akihiko’s insistence that he’d fought a bear was suddenly the most believable thing he’d said all night. 

“Goddamnit, Aki,” Shinjiro mumbled, dropping his elbows onto the table, nearly knocking over both their glasses. “This is why I always told Kotone you needed someone by your side.”

It turned out that was, once again, the wrong fucking thing to say. A strangled yelp escaped from Akihiko’s throat as his posture went rigid. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

Shinjiro rolled his eyes, pressed a hand to his forehead, dragged his fingertips down the sides of his face in an effort to neutralize his expression. “It’s nothing. All I said was that you’re--” _stupid, honest, proud, kind, and_ “--a crybaby.”

(“What about you, Senpai?” Kotone had replied, like she already knew Shinjiro’s answer--)

Akihiko was staring _again_ , open-mouthed and flushed; Shinjiro stood, carried their empty glasses to the counter. “It was the night she gave me back my pocketwatch. Looking at the damn thing just reminded me how little time I had left. All I wanted--”

 _All I wanted was you two to stay by each other’s sides so I could watch over you both forever_ , he didn’t let himself say. _I was so in love with her, and I hadn’t even figured out I was in love with you yet, too. Ain’t that fucked up? Doesn’t it make you want to leave again?_

“--nevermind. It’s complicated,” he finished instead.

“It’s complicated,” Akihiko repeated back to him, wooden and opaque. “You’re going to let me spill my guts to you all night but you won’t say a damn thing back beyond ‘it’s complicated.’ Do you think you’re the only one here with _complicated feelings_ , Shinji?”

Shinjiro felt all of the guilt and the love, the grief and anger, the covetous _want_ start to boil inside him. Steam whistled through the chambers of his heart, thin whips of fear lashed at the scars that criss-crossed his body, tight coils of heat ignited and seared the insides of his abdomen. Tensing every fiber of his muscle was barely enough to keep his joints from unspooling. 

“I don’t want to be selfish anymore,” he hissed. “I don’t want to fuck this up any more than it already is, okay? You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

“I deserve--?” Akihiko took a few noisy steps towards Shinjiro; Shinjiro refused to turn around and look at him. “Better than-- Shinji, are you-- do you--”

 _Don’t make me say it_. 

“You know I ain’t ever been good with words, Aki.” 

One more push, and he was done for--

“ _Shinjiro_.” 

Shinjiro turned around, hands stuffed in his pockets in an embarrassingly feeble attempt at disdain; Akihiko grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him, slammed him into the wall like he had on the roof, hard enough to rattle the pots and pans on their hooks. Shinjiro flattened his palms against the plaster and opened his mouth, but the half-shaped words dissolved on his palate as Akihiko’s lips ghosted over Shinjiro’s throat. 

“Did you think about me?” Akihiko asked, hands slipping between Shinjiro’s back and the wall. “These last five years. Did you, Shinji?”

Shinjiro was entranced, breathless, and above all, _absolutely fucking floored_. Who the _hell_ was this? This man currently turning his backbone to gelatin certainly looked like Akihiko, came on way too goddamn strong like Akihiko, had the same unwavering determination and physical intensity as Akihiko, but-- but was this really the man whose reputation for logical focus preceded him in everything he did? Was this the Akihiko who used to punch and punch ‘til he was bloody in the ring, then stand stoic on the podium with a medal around his neck? The Akihiko who walked through hordes of fangirls like they were invisible but always picked Shinjiro out of a crowd even when he was trying to hide-- 

_Oh_. 

_Oh shit_. 

“Of course I did, you moron,” Shinjiro said, hooking one greedy finger through Akihiko’s belt loop, pulling him the tiniest bit closer and asking one last forbidden question. “But why the hell were you wasting your time thinking about me?”

“You are so damn infuriating,” Akihiko said, before kissing him with an intoxicating mix of bruising strength and frenzied need that was so Aki, Shinjiro would have laughed if he wasn’t so goddamn stunned. Stray thoughts passed over the oscillations of their lips, whispering their worries into Shinjiro’s ear before vanishing with the next press of heat: were they allowed to do this? Would Kotone ever forgive him? Would Akihiko regret it, if Shinjiro stayed in his life? Would _Shinjiro_ regret it, if Akihiko had to leave again? 

How had _so much time_ passed without any time passing at all? 

Ardor clambered over every square inch of his skin, and Shinjiro realized he had some fight left in him after all. He grabbed Akihiko’s arms and tackled him, pinned the whole of his muscular frame between his elbows and his knees, pressed his fingertips into the harpstrings of his ribs and claimed another kiss. Akihiko let out something between a whine and a snarl, a rumbling underbelly of his voice that skated across the roof of Shinjiro’s mouth; he wrapped a hand around Shinjiro’s ponytail, kissed him one more time, and _pulled_.

“Your turn to talk now, Shinji.” Akihiko’s lips were twisted into the wicked smirk he only wore right when he was about to land a KO. His hands found Shinjiro’s bony hips and tightened around them before flipping Shinjiro onto his back in a move that was straight out of the ring.

Shinjiro couldn’t conjure any words, didn’t even bother to try; he raked his hands up the backs of Akihiko’s thighs and squeezed his ass, pulling him close enough to feel his inhales and exhales before they left his lungs. He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe that Akihiko could want him despite all that Shinjiro had done to ruin everything. He took Akihiko’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, and for a moment, Akihiko indulged him, before pulling away and tracing the sharp line of Shinjiro’s jaw with his tongue. 

“Nothing to say, huh? Maybe you’ve got a point.” Akihiko bit a parade of red marks down the slope of Shinjiro’s neck. “When--” another bite, harder, lower across his collarbone, “--have you and I ever gotten anywhere by _talking_?” 

Shinjiro slid his hands to the sides of Akihiko’s face, brushed his chin with his thumbs. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you want to stop, tell me now. Otherwise,” he dropped his voice, caught Shinjiro’s hungry gaze in his, and spilled a serrated stream of filthy promises over Shinjiro’s tingling skin.

Shinjiro pushed Akihiko off him, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him into the bedroom. 

***

“Believe me now?” Akihiko asked with a grin, grabbing Shinjiro’s frozen hand and sliding it across the undeniably bear claw-shaped marks carved into his pecs.

Shinjiro shoved Akihiko down against the mattress, kissed his way across his chest, lingered on the tender skin below the scar. “You’re even more of a moron than I thought.”

***

“Where,” Shinjiro asked, letting his sweat-soaked shoulders relax against his pillow, “did my innocent Aki learn to do all _that_?”

Akihiko smacked Shinjiro’s hip with the back of his hand, rolled onto his side and dropped his cheek over the bullet scars on Shinjiro’s chest. “Your Aki, huh?” 

Shinjiro felt heat rising on his cheeks, but for once, he didn’t fight it.

***

“Do you have work tomorrow?” Akihiko whispered, just as Shinjiro wondered if he’d finally dozed off.

“No. Go to sleep, idiot.” Shinjiro pulled Akihiko against him as tightly as he could, kissing his shoulder and resting his nose against his collarbone. 

_I love you_ , he mouthed into Akihiko’s skin. _Stay_. 

“I will.” Akihiko shifted against him, slipped a hand under his chin and tilted it up towards him. “I love you too.”

***

Shinjiro woke up just before sunrise, Akihiko’s arm draped across his chest. There weren’t any revelations waiting on his tongue; he hadn’t woken up a better man with all his ugly, messy feelings neatly processed and purged. Everything still hurt, and he bet that would be true for Akihiko once he awoke, too. They were headed for a whole lot of conversations that weren’t going to be easy, that Shinjiro couldn’t handwave away with _it’s complicated_. 

But they had time. 

Akihiko was home and Shinjiro was alive; they had _time_ ; they were going to figure it out. 

Shinjiro wrapped his arms around Akihiko’s waist and kissed him ‘til he stirred. They sat up in bed, watched the black sky fill with oranges and pinks, and waited for the sun.


End file.
